


At the Faire

by NotQuiteWords



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Renaissance Faire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-08-30 09:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8527987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotQuiteWords/pseuds/NotQuiteWords
Summary: Feyre and her sisters are venders at Prythian renaissance faire. While trying to sell Feyre's paintings and Elain's flowers they get tangled up in a web of lies that needs to be unraveled before the faire, and their lives, are sold, with the help of some new friends.





	1. Feyre

                Feyre Archeron drove the beat up old conversion van their father had given them through the mud with her sisters, following the line of trucks, campers, and cars through the woods. The three of them were squished into the bench seat of the front, their inventory crammed into the back.

                “Prythian Renaissance Faire proudly sponsored by Hyberon Entertainment Industries, LLC,” Nesta scoffed from beside her. “It doesn’t look like much.”

                “Well, we’re not there yet.” Feyre didn’t take her eyes off the road, not that there was much to see, but she could picture the scowl on her sister’s face and didn’t want to deal with it.

                From the end, Elain leaned forward in her seat, the seatbelt pulling at her shoulder. “It’s awfully far in the woods.”

                “They need a big enough space to host it. This is the biggest faire in the North Country,” Feyre said.

                “Because there’s nothing _else_ in the North Country,” Nesta crossed her arms. “It’s September, we’ll be here for two months; you do realize we’re going to freeze right?”

                Feyre sighed. “We have a space heater.”

                Elain sat back in her seat. “Maybe it won’t be so cold.”

                “We’ve just driven almost two hours _North_.” Nesta shifted in her seat, her bony hips poking Feyre’s thigh.

                They rode in silence, bouncing through the ruts, slowly following the line of vehicles until they were able to park the van and get out, stretching. The three women grabbed their purses, locked the van and walked across the field to the entrance.

                The faire gate was little more than a large wall. They tried to make it look pretty with banners running along it of the nine courts, but it was just a large stone wall with doors down the length of it, leading through a dark tunnel with ticket booths on either side, before it opened up into the main welcome stage inside.

                As venders, the sisters arrived a day before the faire opened, and all of the gates were raised to let them and their inventory in. Feyre dug out their badges from her purse and showed them to the tall woman with red hair at the gate with a clipboard. She hardly nodded their way, but didn’t stop them from entering.

                Elain carried the map of the faire. “I don’t know how we’ll ever find our way around in here.”

                “All we need is our stall, the bathrooms, and our tent. We’re not here to see the faire, we’re here to earn money for school,” Nesta said. As the oldest, she preferred to walk ahead – and walked with her chin lifted, shoulders back, and with the purposeful steps of someone who would walk right over you if you got in the way.

                Feyre and Elain glanced at each other, sharing a look before leaning over the map as they walked. “The courts don’t really overlap much, and it looks like the venders are clustered near the bottom in what they call the mortal lands,” Elain said. She chewed on her bottom lip, looking thoughtful.

                “The courts are supposed to be fairies, the actors all wear fake ears,” Feyre said.

                Nesta’s noise of disgust could be heard even from how far ahead she was.

                “Each one has a specialty, its part of the gimmick of the faire. The play the actors put on changes with audience participation.” Feyre and her sisters made their way through the court to the end where the vender area was. There was no way anyone could see it all in a day, and the faire sold week-long tickets at a discount to entice people to spend more time. It was why the main show had to change each day, so that repeat patrons didn’t get bored.

                Their feet were covered in mud by the time they made it to their stall.

                “108, here we are,” Elain said. “Do you think it’s big enough Feyre? Your canvas’ take up a lot of room.”

                The stall they were assigned _wasn’t_ very big, and likely wouldn’t fit even half of what she brought, let alone a shared space with all of Elain’s flowers. “We’ll make it work.” It was all they could afford.

 

###

 

                It took the rest of the afternoon for the three girls to carry Elain’s flowers and supplies to the stall. By then they had missed lunch, and it was nearing dinner time. Feyre sighed, looking at her half of the stall that was still empty. Elain’s flowers were starting to crowd into the open space, because it was still open. Potting soil and garden tools cluttered the table they had to share.

                “It will be dark soon, we should start setting up the tent,” Nesta said, setting down the box of mason jars she carried.

                “We should get dinner, too. I’m starving.” Elain brushed a spill of soil off the table and walked around to meet her sisters.

                Feyre took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I still need to grab my stuff.”

                “We can do it in the morning, the faire opens at ten, we’ll have lots of time.” Elain pulled the map from her pocket and unfolded it. “What should we do for food?”

                “I made sandwiches; we aren’t going to be buying anything here.”

                “What? Why not?” Elain looked up from the map, her forehead creased in confusion. “We need to eat.”

                “And it’s expensive; a bowl of soup is $7, a soda is $2. Anything we make here will be gone before we leave if we spend it all.” Feyre started walking away, toward the van and the bag with the tent in it.

                Her sisters followed. “If we’re not eating here, what are we going to do?” Nesta asked.

                “There’s a grocery store in town, I have enough in the cooler I packed for a couple days. We’ll buy groceries one morning before we open.” Feyre kept her pace up forcing them to follow her at almost a run. She had walked this path twice as many times as they had, and she was tired, sore and cranky that they hadn’t wanted to help her move any of her stuff. Elain needed help, she needed more time to arrange her flowers into a display.

                Elain. Elain. Elain.

                It didn’t matter that Feyre was the youngest, that she also had to arrange her paintings into a display, that they were both trying to sell things to save for college. It didn’t matter to Nesta at any rate – Nesta who didn’t have anything to sell and hadn’t really done anything to help, either, but who wouldn’t leave Elain anywhere alone.

                Feyre rolled her eyes and pulled the keys from her pocket to unlock the van. Nesta pulled the small white cooler out from under a box of paints, and opened it up to grab two sandwiches from on top. She handed one to Elain and turned to leave without saying anything more.

                Elain stayed, hesitating between following her older sister, and staying to help her younger sister. “Just go,” Feyre said. She tugged at the bag with the tent in it until she could drag it across the floor of the van.

                “Feyre,” Elain looked toward where Nesta left. “I’ll help you in the morning, okay?” she said.

                Feyre pulled the bag with their sleeping bags in it and handed it to her. “Take this too.”

                Elain took it, slinging the strap over her shoulder. “Aren’t you going to eat something?”

                “I’ll be fine.”

                Elain nodded before walking slowly after Nesta, leaning to the side away from the bag she carried.

                Feyre sighed and sat down on the floor of the van. Three sleeping bags were not heavy at all, but Elain acted like she was carrying a bag of potting soil.

                Not that she had ever actually carried a whole bag of soil, or anything heavier than a watering can. Nesta wouldn’t allow it. There wasn’t anything wrong with Elain – she was willing to do her own carrying, but Nesta insisted she would break something if she tried. Feyre couldn’t understand why that meant _she_ had to be the one to carry all the heavy stuff, because of course Nesta wasn’t going to do it either.

                Pulling a sandwich from the cooler, Feyre leaned back and looked up at the stars. She watched the sky darken, and the stars brighten until she had finished her sandwich and folded up the baggy she had wrapped it in, stuffing it back in the cooler. She sat up and brushed the crumbs from her chest before grabbing the bag beside her and closing the van.

                She walked slowly through the faire grounds watching the stars, making her way reluctantly to the small plot of land she would share for two months with Nesta and Elain. They were nowhere to be found when she got there, and it wasn’t surprising. Feyre let the bag fall from her shoulder and set to work putting the tent together.

                It felt like she was alone in the faire, but there were voices of people talking, of others setting up tents, and a few small fires crackling in fire pits. Most of the venders in the mortal lands had tents, but in the distance before the tree line, the sideshow acts had campers. Feyre looked over wistfully before it got too dark to see them, wondering just how cold it would get at night.

 

###

 

                September nights did indeed get pretty cold. Not as cold as what October would bring, but cold enough that Feyre slept in her wool socks and sweatshirt over the leggings and t-shirt she usually wore to bed. At the first sign of light outside of the tent, she slipped out of her sleeping bag and slid her boots on. It would take a lot of trips to bring in her canvas’ and it’d be easier to do before everyone started waking up.

                Nesta and Elain didn’t stir as she left, and Feyre stood at the entrance, contemplating whether she should wake them as ask them to help. Deciding that it wouldn’t really do much good, she zipped the flap closed and headed back through the faire toward the van. They wouldn’t help with the canvas’, and that was most of what she had. The easel wasn’t heavy, but it was bulky, and then there were her paints, but that was just a box. Having their help might save her two trips, not much more.

                At the van, Feyre grabbed an apple from the bag of food she brought and ate that as she started carting her paintings to the stall.

                By her fourth trip she was sweating and pushed up the sleeves on her sweatshirt. The sky was starting to lighten and she could see cars arriving. The actors, most likely, since the cars were much nicer than anything she ever had a hope to afford.

                That was what set apart this faire and was how the owners were able to have it open five days a week, instead of the usual two. The actors were paid well, and had been hired for their gift with improv, she’d heard.

                Feyre ducked back into the van and pulled out the box with her paints in it. She’d brought enough that she could work on paintings while she waited for any sales to happen. There were some glass bottles inside, of colors she’d mixed in large quantities for a commission that had fallen through. The client had insisted on those exact shades to match the colors in a rug, and had watched her mix until it was just right. She’d also insisted on the glass bottles.

                Then, once everything was perfect, the client changed her mind – they decided to go a different direction with the remodel and wouldn’t be keeping the rug, or the painting.

                Feyre had kept the deposit, but she had used most if it to buy the paint, and the paint was all mixed. The bottles clinked together as she walked, and she kept her eye on the ground to step over the roots and ruts.

                “Hey, watch it.”

                Feyre slammed into a wall, the box and glass bottles of paint flying from her hands, landing on a rock and exploding in a shower of dusky pink, pale yellow, and burnt orange. She took a deep breath but all that came out was a half sob as the paint covered her from head to toe.

                It also covered whoever it was she had walked into, but she didn’t have the stomach to look up.

                “Watch where you’re going.” It was a man’s voice.

                Feyre took a deep breath, pushing the paint from her face with her paint covered hands. She blew a harsh breath from her mouth before opening it, trying to clear the paint from her lips. “I’m sorry,” she said. She couldn’t lift her eyes from the broken bottles of paint. There was _so much_ , all wasted. With shaking hands, she reached out to start gathering up the tubes and brushes she could still use. The glass was gone, but everything else should have survived.

                “What are you doing?” he asked.

                Feyre sighed and looked up.

                The man she had run into _had to be_ one of the actors. He wore khaki dress pants, and a blue button up shirt, rolled to the elbows, and loafers with no socks. He was the picture of the rich asshole that could get away with anything because his father had a lot of money. She tried not to smirk that his expensive clothes were covered in pink, yellow, and orange paint. His blond hair was spiked with too much gel, in a style that was about 15 years out of date. She gathered up the last of her paints and stood up with the box. “Sorry,” she said again.

                “These shoes are _Italian_ ,” he said.

                She shrugged, to her that only meant expensive. “I didn’t do it on purpose, I tripped.”

                He leaned his head back, watching her. He opened his mouth to say something, but another man jogged up to them, long red hair tied back in a ponytail flying behind him. “Tam, what the hell happened to you?” he asked when he caught up.

                Feyre turned to look at him. He had a long scar down his face, and she looked away quickly before he caught her staring. Focusing on the paint splashed over the ground at their feet, she wondered if it might make a nice background for a painting. The colors worked well with the darker mud shade.

                “We had a little run-in,” the man said. Tam, she guessed.

                The redhead laughed. “I can see that. What did you run into?”

                Feyre looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious? He ran into me.” She lifted the box she carried, still dripping with paint.

                The blond sputtered, his hands in fists at his sides. “ _You_ ran into _me_.”

                He looked rather silly with the paint splattered all over his face and chest, not at all intimidating like she expected he was trying for. “Again, I’m sorry, but…” she looked around, they were in the middle of the walkway leading from the parking area toward the entrance. It was a wide open space. “But, we were the only ones out here, and you had to have seen me, you could easily have taken two steps to the left and avoided the whole mess entirely.” She met his eyes and lifted her chin like Nesta did.

                The blond man, Tam, narrowed his eyes at her.

                The redhead put a hand on his elbow. “Come on, you should get cleaned up.” He nodded to Feyre before pulling the bigger man along with him, walking into the Faire.

                Feyre stood holding her box, giving them enough time to get where they were going before she made her way into the faire and to her stall. Elain and Nesta still weren’t there when she arrived, so she took the time to make her way to the bathrooms for a shower before she went to wake them up. Her sweatshirt was covered in paint, but her leggings had fared pretty well – her sweatshirt had already been covered in paint so if she could wash most of it off so that it didn’t get stiff, it wouldn’t be ruined.


	2. Rhys

               Before getting out of his car, Rhysand leaned into the back seat to grab the dry cleaning bag with his costumes in it. As an actor at the Prythian Renaissance Faire, he took two months of leave from his regular job to play at being a High Lord of the Night Court. This year’s theme was stopping a war, and he was looking forward to it.

               He locked the car and walked away toward the faire. During rehearsals, he had managed to gather up the two halves of a magic book with his team before bringing it to a cauldron where he was inevitably captured by another of the High Lords. It had been a different one each time, trying out their dynamics to see which of them played off each other best. He wasn’t sure who they had picked, and it would probably change as the season went on anyway. They had a few new actors this year, the man who played the High Lord of the Summer Court, Tarquin, was new – and he was the first High Lord to capture Rhys’ team. He was good, but they got along almost too well, and the stage manager, Amarantha hadn’t liked that.

               A shudder ran down Rhys’ spine as he walked through the ticket tunnel into the faire grounds. Amarantha was the definition of a crazy ex-lover, and someone he tried not to think about. At all.

               The Night Court was the largest territory, set up as a bit of an enigma. The Court of Nightmares sat at the entrance to his court, filled with all of the creepy Halloween-esque merchandise a patron could want. It brought such big crowds with it, that his court had been moved to the farthest edge of the lot. It made the patrons have to walk all the way through every other court before they could get to his. If they made it through the Court of Nightmares, they were treated to some of the best artists, musicians and eateries at the faire.

               These were the big names that people recognized, the ones they would search for, and also the little known names that oozed with talent. It had taken years for Rhys’ and his team to assemble the perfect balance of actors, venders, and talent for their shows, but the Night Court always had the biggest crowds, and that in turn made the overseers very happy.

               Rhys smiled as he walked through the faire, the sickening smell of fried food already permeating the air. It took several minutes of walking before he reached the entrance to the Night Court, and once he did, he inhaled deeply, drawing in the smell of fresh baked bread. The Court of Nightmares was already set up, but nearly deserted – the team that worked the booths were likely in makeup trying to look scary. The Court of Dreams however was alive with activity, and the delicious smells of fresh baked goods.

               When Rhys turned the corner he was tackled into a hug that rocked him back a step. The blonde hair and high, girlish giggle was all he could make out, but he knew who it was. “Morning, Mor.”

               “You prick, you’re late.” She stepped back and beamed at him. “I thought I’d have to put on the crown myself.”

               “You’d look stunning in a crown, sweetheart,” a male voice drawled from behind them.

               Rhys turned to see a broad shouldered man with his black hair pulled into a loose bun, looking like he had ran through the faire. “Cassian, I hope you’re planning to shower before the day starts.”

               Cassian shrugged. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. It might lend authenticity to my costume.”

               Mor rolled her eyes. “God, then you’re not going to be hanging around me at all today.”

               Cassian grinned. “Does that mean you’ll be spending your time with Azriel?”

               Mor almost blushed, but covered it by narrowing her eyes at Cassian and pressing her lips into a thin line. “Bastard.”

               Cassian laughed, a full belly laugh.

               Rhy rolled his eyes. “That’s enough guys, we should get ready. There isn’t a lot of time left before the faire opens.”

               “And whose fault is that cousin?” Mor linked her arm with his. She was already dressed in a low cut, blood red gown, and must be wearing tall heels, because she was almost eyelevel.

               Rhys let her lead him along, and lowered his voice so that Cassian couldn’t hear. “How  _is_  Azriel?”

               She sighed, looking away. “Not now, please.”

               “Morrigan…”

               “Rhy _sand_.” She looked back at him, meeting his eyes. “Just drop it; it’s none of your business.”

               “If he knew half of what you thought of him…” Rhys started.

               “Don’t, okay? He’s not interested, and my pining away after him all these years isn’t his fault.”

               “That’s where you’re wrong.”

               “Don’t. I know you mean well, but don’t get my hopes up.”

               “Mor, I just want to see you happy.”

               She nodded. “I know you do. But I  _have_  talked to Az, really.” She took a deep breath, and then shook her head sadly. “I’d rather not rock the boat Rhys. He’s my best friend, I can’t lose that just because…” she let her voice trail off, looking away.

               Rhys patted her hand that was on his arm, not saying anything. It had been  _years_ , and his friends were torturing themselves over nothing. But she was right, it wasn’t up to him to play matchmaker.

 

###

 

               After changing, Cassian and Rhys found Azriel standing on the top of the House of Wind. It was the farthest edge of the faire, removed enough that the faire visitors didn’t venture that far – which suited them, because they slept there for two months and it awarded them a little more privacy. The rest of the courts’ living areas were built into the faire to make it seem as though being High Lords, or fae was their reality.

               Mor stood on the ground with her hands on her hips looking up at the two story building. “Why didn’t you do that before you changed Az?”

               “I’m fine Mor, and I’m almost done.”

               “What  _are_  you doing up there?” Rhys stepped up next to his cousin, and watched as Azriel fiddled with something at the chimney, his great wings flared out behind him.  

               The first year they had worked at the faire, Azriel and Cassian had managed to retrofit a couple hand gliders into a pair of wings for each of them. They made one for Rhys too, but he only wore them for the battle scenes – they were heavy and if you didn’t watch where you were going, even though they retracted with a pull of a string, it was easy to knock things over.

               As his general and spymaster though, it did add to their air of intimidation -- if Azriel’s brooding silence or Cassian’s sheer size weren’t enough.

               “I’m installing a wifi booster,” Az said. “We’re too far from the main hub for a reliable connection, and I have an international presentation to give on Monday.”

               “Morrigan, you’re looking positively lovely today.”

               All eyes turned to face the new voice behind them, and Rhys had to fight a scowl at the man who joined them. “Director Hyberon, I didn’t expect you to make an appearance today,” he said.

               “I wouldn’t miss my favorite show, would I?” his smile felt wrong somehow, more than just a forced nicety.

               A female stood next to him, smiling that same smile and Rhys cringed at the look she was giving him. Her long blond hair flared out around her, almost touching her elbows and he couldn’t tell if it was a wig or not. She wore a blue robe with a deep hood that trailed down her back, and looked like she was consciously standing so that they could all see the form of her body. Hyberon put an arm around the small female and awkwardly squeezed her to his side. “I’d like you to meet my daughter Ianthe, she’s joining the show this year.” He looked at Rhys with that forced smile and nodded toward his daughter. “I trust you’ll make her feel at home.”

               “I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly,” Ianthe purred. She tilted her head and looked up at Rhys from under her lashes, with what he assumed she meant as a seductive smile on her red lips, but it only made his skin crawl.

               Hyberon turned his body from his daughter and faced Mor again; his smile morphed into a predatory grin. “Morrigan, it’s such a shame to see you playing  _third_  to a High Lord, your grace deserves a crown of your own.”

               There was a thud as Azriel jumped from the roof, gliding to land just behind Mor, his wings flared behind him.

               “I’m happy here with my family, thank you.” Mor ducked her head in an approximation of a bow, but Rhys didn’t miss that she stepped back, toward Azriel.

               Cassian stepped up next to Azriel and the two of them, with their wings strapped to their backs were intimidating in leather armor.

               Hyberon drew himself up to his full height, which was average at best, and still shorter than the three men he faced, before he slipped his arm around Ianthe’s waist and nodded to them. “There will be a meeting before the opening of the faire this morning; I should get around to the rest of the High Lords to let them know. I trust you’ll be there Rhysand.” He tugged on Ianthe and together they walked away.

               As soon as they were out of earshot Mor crossed her arms and muttered, “$10 says she’s not really his daughter.”

               Cassian shuddered dramatically. “I really don’t want to know, she’s half his age either way.”

               Rhys shook his head. “I wonder what the meeting will be about?”

               “Or where? He didn’t say that either.” Azriel was still staring at the way Hyberon had left.

               “Just before opening? It’s probably near the gates; we have to be there to greet the guests in the procession.” Rhys turned away from his friends to head into the house of wind, an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.

               “Ready for a new season guys?” Cassian called after him.

               But they didn’t answer, and he knew they felt the tension as he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just getting started, but if anyone is interested in talking about it, I can be contacted on tumblr as NotQuiteWords there, too.


	3. Nesta

             Snuggling deeper into her sleeping bag, Nesta pulled her legs up to her chest, trying to create a pocket of warmth. It was freezing. They hadn’t brought in the space heater, but it looked like they would need it right away.

            It had taken almost all of the daylight hours to carry in Elain’s plants and set up her space. Nesta stifled a yawn with a groan as she remembered they still had to help carry in Feyre’s canvas’ in before opening – and change into some sort of faire “garb”. She sneered to herself in her sleeping bag, not wanting to bring her head out yet to greet her sisters.

            Behind her, Elain stirred. “Nesta?”

            “What?”

            “Where’s Feyre?”

            Popping her head out of the sleeping bag and hissing as the cold air hit her face, Nesta looked at the empty sleeping bag next to her and sighed. “She’s either in the bathroom, or she’s gone to get her stuff from the van.”

            “Shouldn’t we go help her?”

            Nesta looked to the tent door but couldn’t see how dark it was. “It’s barely sunrise, and it’s cold.”

            “But Feyre’s out there.” The sound of the zipper on Elain’s sleeping bag was loud in their small tent. “She shouldn’t have to do it all alone.” Cloth rustled as Elain slipped on her shoes. “She helped me all day yesterday, and she drove us here.”

            “So this is all her fault, and she’ll be fine without us for another hour.” It really was freezing; Nesta thought her bones would rattle right out of her skin.

            “Come on Nesta, she’s our sister.”

            “She’s stronger than you think, she doesn’t need us.” Nesta winced at the bite in her voice. It’s not that she didn’t like her youngest sister, or that she didn’t want to help her, but those canvas’ were large and heavy, and Feyre really was stronger than they were – probably from carrying around her paintings. After their mother died when they were children, Nesta had done her best to hold things together despite their father’s bumbling with trying to raise three girls. Feyre had been headstrong and independent even as a small child, and never wanted to do anything Nesta told her too.

            If she was being honest, Nesta would admit that Feyre was just like her. Elain on the other hand was nothing like either of them, she was more like their father: kind and gentle, and needing the occasional prod to get her heads out of the clouds and back down to reality.

            Elain stood, now wearing a heavy fleece sweatshirt over the yoga pants and long sleeved shirt she’d worn to bed. “It’s light enough, we should go.”

            “I’m not going until I’ve had a shower first. Let’s get dressed.” Nesta reluctantly pulled herself from the semi-warmth of her sleeping bag and put on her shoes before reaching for her winter jacket. She’d had the foresight to bring that in the night before. Feyre hadn’t even brought in the cooler, so there was no breakfast to be had until they found her at the van.

 

### 

 

            Nesta led Elain to the bathrooms where they both showered and then changed into their costumes. They wore simple dresses that Nesta had sewn up for them from a sketch Feyre had done. It was the same dress, and she made each of theirs a different color. Elain wore a pastel green, Nesta’s was a burnished red, and Feyre’s was a navy blue. It was a simple long sleeve, with long skirt, and square neck, and they each had a white apron. The reason she had wanted to change before helping to carry in heavy paintings was the heavy wool cloaks that she had made. They had found a whole bolt of heavy grey wool on sale over the summer that had just enough to envelope them in warmth for the faire season.

            They reached their shop and found Feyre setting up her paintings on stands, with wet hair curling down her back. Nesta frowned to see that she was still in leggings and a paint covered sweatshirt. “Where’s your dress?” Nesta asked.

            Feyre jumped slightly and turned around. “I’m not set up yet.”

            Was she covered in more paint than usual? It was hard to tell. “The faire opens soon, do you have the debit card to get breakfast?”

            “No. There are yogurts in the cooler.”

            “We need to eat.”

            “Not here. We discussed this before we left. It’s $7 for a bowl of soup, we can’t afford to eat here, not to mention how bad for us it is to eat this food every day. I’ll do groceries after the faire closes tonight, and until then there is enough food in the cooler in the van – which you would have had a chance to get if you had helped me carry anything.”

            Nesta put her hands on her hips, and glared at her sister and her tone of voice. “Listen, you’re not Mom, and I don’t like that tone.”

            “No. I’m not. But neither are you Nesta – someone has to be responsible for the money that we make here, and once we start making it, we’re not going to spend it,” Feyre snapped.

            Elain stepped forward. “Do you have many paintings left?”

            Feyre slid her eyes away from Nesta to their other sister, ever the peacemaker. “A few.” Not looking back at Nesta, Feyre marched past them and walked toward the parking lot. Elain shrugged, and then followed after their younger sister, picking her skirt up in her hands to keep it from bunching around her ankles as she walked.

            Nesta let out a rough breath and looked at the shop she would have to be staying at all day for the next two months. It wasn’t much. A small little space split in half for her two sisters, and no space for her. Growling, she turned on her heel and followed her younger sisters.

            They had almost made it to the gate before a tall man intercepted Feyre. He was dressed in a faire costume already, a sky blue color that did nothing but contrast with his blonde hair and green eyes. The costume looked expensive; it had vine patterns all over it embroidered through the thick fabric to make it look quilted. The cape he wore was strange, it looked like a bear’s pelt, but it had a wolf’s head that she could see when he turned his body to stop her sister from passing him – if a wolf’s head had antlers.

            Feyre stood with her feet planted, and her arms crossed. Elain stayed behind her, shying away from the large man who blocked them.

            Nesta stepped up to her sisters, setting her face into a lethal calm expression that dared him to mess with her family. “Who are you?”

            The man’s green eyes flicked to her, running over her face before looking back at Feyre. “Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court.”

            His fake posh accent, the one the actors put on to seem more in line with a Renaissance faire, grated on her nerves. Nesta raised an eyebrow at him, showing how unimpressed she was. “What do you want?”

            “I was just getting to that.” He looked at Feyre with a slow smile.

            “I don’t owe you anything,” Feyre snapped.

            “You owe me a new pair of shoes.”

            “They’re not ruined, you can get them cleaned.”

            “It costs to clean them, they’re _Italian_.” Tamlin took a step closer to her sister, and Nesta did the same. They may not always get along, but she wouldn’t let her little sister be bullied by some self-important half-rate actor.

            “So you’ve said. You didn’t even ask how much that paint _you_ spilled cost.”

            “ _I spilled_?”

            “Yes! You ran into me.”

            Tamlin squared his shoulders, puffing up his broad chest. “ _You_ ran into _me_.”

            Elain held up her hands. “Maybe we call it a draw. Paint is expensive, like really really, and shoes can be to. So it’s even, okay?”

            “Even? it’s not even at all.” Tamlin stepped back, his green eyes watching each of them. “I hear your paintings are good, and I’ve just heard some news about the faire that has me inclined to expand my Court to include a gallery. I’ll hire you to paint in my gallery, and take the cost of the shoe _cleaning_ from your salary.”

            ‘Could he do that? How much would a salary from an actor be?’ Nesta stared at the man, gauging the truth of his words.

            Feyre was apparently doing the same thing, for she just stared up at him with her arms crossed. “I have my own paintings to sell.”

            “But will selling them be enough to cover the cost?” He smiled, a feral, angry smile that didn’t sit well in Nesta’s belly. But she didn’t say anything, because he was looking at Elain again. Stepping closer so that her dress brushed up against Elain’s, she put her arm around her sister’s shoulder and pulled her back a step, away from him.

            Feyre could handle her own, if she had to, she was tough, but Elain – Nesta could live with herself if something happened to Elain. She didn’t want anything to happen to Feyre either, but Feyre was more like to get herself out of scrapes.

            Tamlin laughed. “It’s settled then. I’ll send some people to your shop for your paints and canvas’ and to spread out the lovely flowers arranged there, and you can come with me to get dressed before the gates open.” He put a hand on her shoulder and gripped it.

            Feyre shrugged him off. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

            “Oh, but you will,” he leaned down to whisper something in her ear that had her swearing at him.

            “That’s absurd.”

            “Is it?” He lifted his chin. “I can pay for the paint you spilled, but can you pay for the damage it caused?”

            Feyre sputtered, sneering at him. “You have some nerve.”

            “I’m offering you a peaceful solution. Work for me, and we’ll call it even.” He slid his arm around her, pulling her away as he walked.

            Feyre didn’t even look over her shoulder at them as she was led away, and Nesta fumed. Before Elain could say anything, she started marching after her.

            “Nesta, wait,” Elain called.

            “What?” she snapped.

            She held up the keys to the van. “It’s a job, she doesn’t need to be rescued.”

            “Did you see the way he _looked_ at her?” Nesta stalked to her younger sister, hands on her hips. He had looked like any number of men in a bar sizing up their next target.

            “Well, yes, it’s kind of sweet don’t you think?” Elain smiled softly.

            “Sweet? Nothing about that was sweet.”

            “He’s offered her a job Nes. He’ll take care of her for us.”

            “Are you serious right now? Did you not just see the same thing I did?”

            Elain shrugged. “Let’s get some yogurt, I’m starving and we have to move the flowers around, I don’t want anyone else touching them – they could get damaged.” She walked away with quick steps that had Nesta having to run to catch up.

            What else could she do but follow Elain? Nesta looked back over her shoulder; back the way Tamlin had taken her other sister and hated having to choose between them. Feyre was strong; she could take care of herself. Facing forward, Nesta followed Elain to the van where they had a breakfast of yogurt and granola bars before taking the cooler back with them to the small shop that was now half-empty with no trace of Feyre’s paintings.


	4. Feyre

 

            The Spring Court Manor was large compared to anything she had seen in the vendor location. Feyre followed Tamlin through the house toward where her gallery would be. As soon as they arrived, he’d sent one of the dozens of people crowding around the manor off to find her “something appropriate to wear”. Feyre rolled her eyes at his back. She hadn’t yet changed into her costume, but the dresses that Nesta made were pretty enough.

            The dress they had found still had a price tag on it. “$500!” Feyre gasped. “That’s insane.”

            A thin woman in grey frowned at her. “It’s handmade.”

            “Not out of gold.” It looked like something out of a Disney movie – or like a pink bird exploded all over it.

            She let the thin woman, Alis, help her into the layers and layers of tulle, the corset and the ridiculous tiara before she escaped into the faire grounds. It was after opening and she had to dodge the throngs of patrons, many of them in outfits more elaborate than her feather skirts.

            She rounded the last turn to face the mortal realms and found Nesta scowling at her like she had expected her.

            “Oh, that’s such a pretty dress,” Elain cooed.

            Feyre ignored her, facing Nesta, before she could open her mouth, her older sister stood and planted her hands on the counter.

            “Have you been fired already?” she asked.

            “What? No. I just came to see if Elain needed help moving her pots around.”

            Elain stepped around the counter to pet the feathers of Feyre’s skirts. “There wasn’t much to move, most of my flowers were creeping over to your side already. It’s like they knew they would have more space to grow in.”

            Feyre bit her lip so that she wouldn’t reply. Instead she took a deep, steadying breath, and let it out slowly.

            Nesta interrupted her thoughts again. “Where’d you get the dress?”

            “Tamlin is forcing me to ‘dress the part’,” she sneered.

            “How good for you.”

            “It’s not charity. He’s no doubt making me pay for this, as well.” Feyre winced at the cost she was racking up. She’d end up in debt to the man before the week was out.

            Nesta choked. “We’ll have nothing left at this rate. Why come here at all?”

            “It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this,” Feyre insisted.

            “It’s the first day, and we’ll already never be able to pay back the damage you’ve caused, let alone save enough for three of us to go to college.”

            “Nes, don’t be so harsh. She didn’t mean to spill paint all over that High Lord,” Elain said. “It will all work out, in the end.”

            Feyre and Nesta turned to glare at their sister, and the expression was too similar for her taste, so Feyre turned and stalked away. She wove in and out of the patrons, nodding and smiling to them in her best Disney-fake expression.

            She was halfway there when she saw the redhead, what’s-his-name running toward her. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said.

            “So?”

            “Tamlin’s worried about you, where did you go?”

            “To visit my sisters.”

            “You shouldn’t leave without telling him.”

            “He’s not my keeper.” Feyre didn’t look at him, and continued pressing through the crowd.

            “He is, now, you work for him.”

            “I haven’t signed a contract.”

            “That’s why I’ve been looking for you. He had it faxed over by his lawyers this morning.”

            Feyre took another deep breath.

            “It’s best if you just sign it,” he lowered his voice. “Tamlin has a temper.”

            “I noticed,” she stopped and turned to look up at him. He wasn’t as broad as Tamlin was, but he was built well, and filled out the leather armor he wore. He smelled of cinnamon.

            “Feyre, I don’t like this any more than you do, but it’s really better this way. Work for him a little while, then when he tires of you, he’ll let you go.”

            She raised an eyebrow. “Tires of me? Sounds like this isn’t the first blackmailing he’s done.”

            His face darkened. “Let’s just get back.”

            “Listen –?” she couldn’t remember if she’d learned his name.

            “Lucien,” he supplied.

            “Listen Lucien, I didn’t sign up for this.”

            “He needs you.”

            “What?”

            “I can’t really say more, but just give him a chance, okay?”

            Feyre shook her head, and followed Lucien through the faire. Something about the way he walked, the way he his eyes kept watch on everything around him shook her. He was a tall man, and reasonably well built, but he looked … frightened. It didn’t settle well in her stomach.

 

###

 

            That evening, Feyre settled into her room gaping at the luxury of it. Outside in the distance she could see a bonfire in the area where the tents were set up. She could faintly hear music.

            “You did well on your first day.” Tamlin leered from her open door, his shoulder leaning on the doorframe, his legs crossed at the ankles at a weird angle.

            One swift kick would knock him off balance, she mused.

            “You should stay in here tonight. The parties get kind of wild.”

            She fought to not roll her eyes at him. “There was nothing in your contract saying that you got to tell me what to do. I sell paintings while we’re open, that’s it.”

            Tamlin shook his head, blond hair falling over his shoulders. He was dressed like a model for an Abercrombie and Fitch commercial. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

            Turning from him, Feyre faced her bed. “I’ll be fine, I don’t need your concern.”

            Making a front of protest, Tamlin left her room.

            She stewed for nearly half an hour before quickly dressing in warm clothes and heading in the direction of the music.

            It wasn’t long before she reached the party; wasn’t long before someone handed her a red plastic cup filled with amber liquid that tasted like a tree; wasn’t long before she realized she hadn’t seen anyone she knew, that she didn’t know anyone to see, and that she didn’t care. Feyre danced.

            She danced and twirled and laughed by herself near the bonfire until she was too dizzy to see straight and wondered what had been in her cup.

            Hands touched her and she stumbled when she pulled away. “Don’t touch me,” but the words came out garbled in her slur.

            Laughter, and the reek of rotten milk assaulted her. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here alone?”

            “I’m not alone.”

            “You look alone.”

            Feyre shook her head. “My sisters are waiting for me. They went to get food.”

            A figure stepped out of the dark and into the light of the fire, two others following behind him. They were big, maybe six feet tall, wearing jeans and leather jackets and trying impossibly hard to look like a badass from the 1950s. She tried not to laugh, but it bubbled out on its own anyway. The one in front frowned at her. “What’s so funny?”

            “You’re trying to be Fonzi.”

            “The Muppet?”

            She couldn’t help it, she giggled again.

            “There you are, I’ve been looking for you,” a deep velvet voice purred behind her.

            The men in front of her stiffened, backing up a step. “What do you want?”

            “Go play,” the voice said.

            Feyre turned around slowly, frowning at the gorgeous man dressed all in black. He melded in with the night like he was born of it. She heard the three men behind her as they left. “Who are you?”

            He smiled at her, his eyes running over her body before settling on her eyes. “You shouldn’t be here alone, you know, it’s not safe.”

            “I’m not alone.”

            He raised an eyebrow at her, taking a step forward to close the distance between them.

            Her body responded to the proximity by speeding up the pace of her heartbeat. His chiseled jaw was even more perfect up close. She frowned. “I should go.”

            He smiled. “Good, you should be afraid of me.”

            Afraid was possibly not the right word, but she nodded anyway. “Thanks,” she said, before turning and moving through the crowd. Her buzz had disappeared at the sight of him, and Feyre walked slowly through the empty faire to her new home for the next two months, her steps dragging, her thoughts wandering back to the man all in black near the fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is the first fanfiction I’ve done for this fandom (and the first I’ve done at all in about 15+ years), but I’m trying it out for NaNo this year, and it’s been a challenge getting the words out, so I thought I’d post the first bit and see if anyone liked it? 
> 
> It’s a modern AU taking place at a renaissance faire which is a semi-parallel with A court of thorns and roses, and will continue through a court of mist and fury. I don’t know how long it will be, but I do have an outline for what’s going to happen.


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